It’s all over now, baby blue September 4, 2008

I often joke that Baltimore is like that casual drug-using, verbally abusive boyfriend you can’t quite get rid of. You know it’s fatally flawed, but once you get close to it, you start making excuses and saying things like “It’ll change” and “if we can just get rid of the instigators, the problem will be solved.” But it never changes. It only gets close and breaks your heart when you realize it’s not getting any better.

Even though it never quite gets right, though– even though peg-arm, peg-leg guy has been begging for change on the corner of President and Pratt for years and will continue to do so, probably, until he expires– you still love it. Or at least I do. I know Baltimore’s not for everyone. Hell, when I started college at UMBC, I was pretty certain Baltimore wasn’t for me.

First of all, I was a farm girl. I’d never lived closer than twenty miles to the nearest Wal-Mart (which was, incidentally, the premier shopping destination). Five years ago– five short, sweet years ago– I had never heard of BCBG, thought I was chic in Pumas and ripped jeans, and saw a beauty in swimming holes that even now seems faded in comparison to my memories. Secondly, after my love of rural life, I was a DC lover. I saw that DC was bigger, more internationally recognized, offered better municipal services, and had more free attractions than Baltimore. It was a cultural center. The Philadelphia to our region’s Pittsburgh. Maybe even the New York to the region’s Allentown.

But once I was enrolled at UMBC, I started to explore Baltimore. The college fraternities would charter these buses downtown, and for a few dollars they would drop you off at 10 p.m. and take you back to campus at 2a.m.– essentially, they were designated drivers. My friend Carolyn and I would take the drunk bus down to Fells Point on Thursday nights, getting served alcohol at a ridiculously young age. We’d stroll the walkways along the water, picturesque but rancid with the smell of restaurant Dumpsters and rotten Inner Harbor backwash… party with the college set and narrowly avoid citations for underage drinking, or worse… shoot pool at a downtown hall with unimaginably high rates, each honing our skills while honing our game. And somewhere in there, I started falling for Baltimore.

Out of nowhere, I was charmed by Charm City. Everything was so fun, and comfortable– the homey feeling that all the neighborhoods offer, thanks to the fact that Baltimore isn’t a cohesive city. It’s a collection of neighborhoods. Fells Point was a different experience from Canton, which was different from Washington Village, worlds away from Mount Washington though they shared a name. The Inner Harbor quickly became passe, and I think I was even legal before I ever bothered with Federal Hill. I loved every nook and cranny I found, from yardsales up on Erdman Avenue on Sunday mornings before pool league, to self-aware ritzy dining at Pazo and the newly created HarborEast.

The summer between junior and senior year in college, I didn’t bother going home. I just stayed in Baltimore. I didn’t have a car, or a job lined up, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter– I walked to Belvedere Square, learned North Baltimore’s unintuitive roadways like the back of my hand, and picked parts for my old Jeep from Crazy Ray’s. I used to cruise that beater up and down York Road, into downtown, and across Caton Avenue and the eff-it-it’s-Wilkens Avenue that meanders into Catonsville to my best friend’s house. I had gone from convinced that my hometown was my first love to wondering whether I’d love anyplace more than Baltimore. I loved tree-lined Lake Avenue, from “the 83″ all the way to its casual terminus at our street. I loved driving into Charles Village past Loyola, only to discover there is nothing remotely interesting in Charles Village except Video Americaine and the Paper Moon Diner.

The city definitely left an indelible smudge on me. It’s gritty, and at its best hearkens back to that John Waters time, that Oriole Park opening night time, that Johnny Unitas time. A nostalgia that you revel in, even as it reveals that you’re in a solidly middle-class town with good values and gentrification and cute touristy boutiques. At the end of that summer– even though I didn’t make a particularly good living, or do much of anything besides bounce around between working for and dining at my favorite Baltimore restaurants– it only seemed natural to move off-campus and find an apartment.

I really lucked out with this apartment. I viewed several, but in this one I found a location close to UMBC, the pre-Industrial Revolution charm I’d so loved in the house I was raised in, and plenty of space to spread out and plant some roots. I came in with the trunk my great-grandmother used to ferry up and down the Chesapeake on trips to vacation on the island; everything else I used to furnish the place, I gradually accumulated from yardsales and Craigslist. (Craigslist is the other love I’ve acquired during my time here, but that’s another story for another post.)

It’s not the jobs I had here that I remember, or even the textbook education I received. Partying with Jami in ways that make me look back with equal parts cringe and fondness, I remember. Taking absolutely reckless risks and realizing that I was flying completely solo without a safety net, I remember. Being too proud to ask my mom for money, but too desperate not to, is burned into my memory as well. Remember me making so little money freelancing, I almost moved into the Copycat to lower my rent– before my mom and grandmother put me on a guilt trip about how my grandfather would lie awake in his grave, worrying? Remember going to every Catholic church in Baltimore, only to realize that I am Catholic in ethnicity but not in faith? Remember finding solace at Charm City Yoga, but not to the tune of $140 a month? I remember getting locked out of my work and going instead to the house where American Psycho could have been filmed. I remember Karate Explosion. I remember Lauren Tonikola, and Marcus Gross, and dancing to Sly & the Family Stone with the windows open, unnecessarily loud, at all hours. I remember creating extraordinarily elaborate costumes for Halloween in Fells Point. Doing the YMCA on the bar in our Village People costumes. Making oversize pots of stew and sharing containers of it with Homeless Dave, who keeps going back to jail to get a warm bed, and finally getting what Marc Steiner was complaining about.

I have older memories, too, of being here, like driving through the old Druid Hill Park neighborhood and knowing that, when it was in its glory and houses dotted the lake, my grandfather lived here. I have his memory drifting in and out of different parts of the city, stories he told me, the knowledge that a distant cousin of his still lives here. I have my first great love, and my first baffling heartbreak. And second. And third. I have me realizing that heartbreak isn’t that baffling, or that breaking. I have endless memories of rock concerts, sailing the Chesapeake after way too many beers and entirely too late after any reasonable bedtime, discovering that I… love… textiles and clothes, the feeling of the ground moving out from under me and fundamentally shifting when I finished reading Lolita, and the shock of innumerable other discoveries I’ve made over the course of my time living in Baltimore.

Somewhere along the way, I became a city girl. I don’t know when, or how in the hell, it happened… but I became a traffic-ignoring, mace-carrying, side-street-navigating city girl whose only MO was to explore, instead of to hide. Baltimore’s changed me, and the lessons of it (some of which I’m still realizing) will stay with me for years to come. Living in the DC suburbs is going to be different, that’s for sure. But I’ll still drive up and see my old City by the Bay. And visiting Baltimore will be a real pleasure, a bite to savor after a long drive to pound familiar streets. It’ll be like going home. And maybe even meeting up with your now-ex-boyfriend for coffee– you know which one. The one who never quite got it together, but for whom you will always have an impossible degree of fondness.

Let’s talk about guns for a minute. June 26, 2008

The Supreme Court’s first-ever ruling on the Second Amendment– a sharp 5-4 split striking down the Washington, D.C. ban on handguns that’s been in effect since I was a child– touched off a lively discourse between myself and my significant other about politics, guns, and the law. It also revives the “bitter-guns-religion” comment the RNC seeks to use against Obama every day between now and the general election.

So let’s talk about it for a minute. Let’s talk about why the handgun ban was (and remains) entirely appropriate, why Bittergate is founded on a comment that, linguistically, makes a whole lot of sense, and why the positions I hold don’t run counter to my belief that law-abiding deer-hunting, target-practicing, crime-avoiding citizens in all 50 states have a protected right to own firearms. (AND I support the Brady ban.)

First of all, the argument for gun ownership that’s predicated on the immediate availability of a citizens’ militia is a joke. It would take a catastrophe we can’t even imagine for United States citizens to get off their sofas, load up their guns, organize, and take on an enemy. Prime example: on 9/11, I didn’t see all the gun owners protecting the Pentagon or encircling the gates to airports cracking down on passengers and sniping potential terrorists. The U.S. military & government handled that. Besides, wars aren’t fought by troop formations in militias anymore. The closest thing I can foresee to minutemen enforcing the law of the land is a solo vigilante enforcing his own brand of justice across the land. We call those “mass shootings.” The closest thing I can see to Americans protecting their way of life from a meddling or misguided government? Waco. So don’t tell me that gun ownership is some form of national security. It isn’t. That’s why we have a military and defense budget that are beyond compare.

Next up: The handgun debate. I grew up an hour outside of Washington, D.C. and I remember (even after the handgun ban was in effect) being keenly aware that Southeast was a good place to go if you wanted to get clipped by a stray bullet. Now, I know what you’re going to say: Handguns legally purchased by law-abiding citizens aren’t the issue in gun crime. And you’re right. They’re probably not. But the D.C. handgun ban is an important tool for law enforcement agencies. If they spot pistols on petty criminals who can’t be charged with much else, there is a law on the books that allows prosecution of those individuals, instead of letting them drive up the rate of gun violence. Banning handguns in the District gives law enforcement reason to believe that anyone who would willfully break that ban and carry a gun is probably not going to use it for shooting Pepsi cans.

The handgun ban doesn’t necessarily stop handguns from getting into the hands of would-be criminals. But it does create a scarcity of handgun dealers within the District. If handguns are outlawed, you can bet fewer stores will stock the clips and magazines for 9- and 8mm guns or .357s. The ban does make it just a little bit harder to commit a gun crime… and when one is committed, it makes the punishment a little harsher.

So some do-good lawyers are up in arms about this (no pun intended, but I’m keeping it). It’s a total violation of civil rights. Right? Is it really, or is it a wedge issue that the right wing can dramatize to keep their coffers full of donations during a campaign cycle? If the self-professed small-government types were that concerned about civil rights, they’d take up the issue of tweezers and shampoo in a carry-on bag long before they’d take up handguns in D.C., don’t you think? Oh but wait. That’s no longer a civil rights issue, it’s a national security issue?

Washington D.C. is unique from all the other states in the union. It’s not a state, and it’s not a city belonging to the State of Maryland or the Commonwealth of Virginia. It’s an independent federal district governed by Congress. D.C. is the international representative of the United States across the world, home to our embassies, our agencies, and our entire judicial, representative, and executive system. There are all kinds of bizarre laws that apply to the District and its residents– diplomatic immunity, an absolutely zero-tolerance DWI policy (if you get pulled over after one beer, it’s off to the chokey), can’t build higher than the top of the Capitol. You can’t even carry a pocketknife there. Why? Because it’s the nation’s capitol. And it’s different.

If banning handguns in the District of Columbia is part of a program to dramatically reduce overall crime (which it did) and make D.C. that much closer to a model city, I don’t see the problem. Owners of rifles, shotguns, and anything else that could be construed as a recreational firearm are welcome to own them in D.C. But handguns don’t make law-abiding citizens that much safer– in fact, in situations where the victim pulls a handgun on their attacker, they’re more likely to have the weapon turned against them than they are to debilitate the attacker. If you’re really that worried about it, get some damn mace!

Now, onto Bittergate. Let’s parse this sentence, and I’ll explain to you why Barry would have defended it if the average American newsviewer didn’t have the attention span of a hamster. About the former Southern Democrats, the Blue-Collar Blue Staters who have gone red, Barack Obama said the following:

“So, it depends on where you are, but I think it’s fair to say that the places where we are going to have to do the most work are the places where people feel most cynical about government” … In a lot of these communities in big industrial states like Ohio and Pennsylvania, people have been beaten down so long, and they feel so betrayed by government, and when they hear a pitch that is premised on not being cynical about government, then a part of them just doesn’t buy it.”

And the kicker:

“You go into some of these small towns in Pennsylvania, and like a lot of small towns in the Midwest, the jobs have been gone now for 25 years and nothing’s replaced them. And they fell through the Clinton administration, and the Bush administration, and each successive administration has said that somehow these communities are gonna regenerate and they have not. So it’s not surprising then that they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations.”

Please tell me what is wrong with that statement? Because I understood it the first time I read the transcript. And this is not me parsing words, this is just me paraphrasing what I hear in that statement:

“People in working-class areas feel frustrated with their government because, 25 years after manufacturing jobs have packed up and left town, it feels like their government’s economic policy has forgotten them. They don’t feel like trusting government solutions anymore because they have been burned. This economic mistrust has translated into a broader general mistrust of the United States government. Since the broader economic worry isn’t something that’s easily divided or articulated, these voters focus on easy explanations and arguments about illegal immigrants stealing jobs, or whether the government is interfering with their right to own guns, because they are easier positions to debate and defend. Since the government isn’t listening to them about the economy, they speak up about more divisive, hot-button issues in order to express their frustration.”

Now are you seriously going to tell me that isn’t totally true?

In conclusion. President Obama isn’t going to take away your .386 deer rifle, and he’s not making fun of your religion. He might try and put some windmills on your Appalachian mountains in place of the mountaintop coal removal that’s decimating the landscape, but he’s not going to destroy your way of life. You don’t need a pistol in the District of Columbia and you don’t need a damn M-16A2 to shoot opossums.

News snacks June 24, 2008

It’s pollinator week… (toast the bees)

Also, James Dobson is not only dumb, but also confused, and should take the route of Jerry Falwell… Dobson’s inability to apply logic to theology probably explains his evangelical persusions…

Charlie Black says what we all agree is probably true, even though it defies logic that terrorism incidents on Republican watch somehow encourage Republican rule…

And finally (can’t find an article for this)… the UN condemns the ridiculous election interference in Zimbabwe. So we can relegate it to the pile of other things the UN strongly verbally condemns… Genocide… etc…

Loving right now… June 19, 2008

OK. So, every time I log into WordPress lately, I type out some diatribe against Joe Lieberman, the Republican party, American corporations who build land mine parts, or ethanol.

And you, dear readers, paying $4 for gas and most likely counting the weeks until 43 & co. are out of office… I just don’t think you feel like hearing more of that. So without further ado, let’s talk about a list of random stuff I’m into right now that you should consider, too. I’ll try to make it a regular thing.

First stop: Monday’s show at the Black Cat rocked. The band was Firewater, and they’re self-described as gypsy punk jammers. Unfortunately, that immediately brings Gogol Bordello to mind, and they happen to be much less obnoxious and much more groovy than that. Think tribal drums, a gleefully unchained lead singer, and a freestyling trombone/French horn player. Their MySpace is here.

Next up is the Palace of Wonders (also in Washington, DC. I know…) If you could find a bar out of a Tarrantino set that didn’t actually make the final cut, this would be it. The bar is the kind of total don’t-give-a-f, 70s jukebox deep cuts and sweating bottled beers joint you see in movies but don’t think actually exists. The boundless cool of indie-burlesque tattoo girls combine with a kitschy antique sideshow collection in this venue, which hosts different acts every night of the week. Last time, we saw a babealicious bellydancer swallow two-foot swords, spit fire, and dance with a seven-foot python. Her equally badass husband escaped from a suspended straitjacket, and their performance was interspersed with a guy who shoved acupuncture needles the whole way through his arm and walked on broken wine bottles.

In other news, the ultimate babymaking song has arrived. For a while, Dmitri was all about Sensual Seduction by Snoop Dogg (sorry, but that’s weak compared to my O’Jays and Teddy Pendergrass playlist)… but it appears there’s a tiebreaker. Al Green & John Legend have recorded a song. Together. Wait for it… it’s called “Stay with Me.” I don’t know how this slipped under my radar, but it is literally just a babymakin’ jam. It’s as if someone mixed “Lifted” and “Let’s Get Married” into one sweet, sweet jam. Sexy jam ‘08. Last summer I was about waking up to “Mary Jane” by Rick James (don’t laugh) and a little “Crush” by Daaaave. But you just can’t step to the Reverend.

Last thing I’m into that you have to try because I’m such a trendsetter: cucumber sandwiches. Open-faced, on toast a bit of whipped cream cheese and a sprinkling of fresh dill. It is delicious, and now it’s in my keyboard. I hope the tastiness makes it into the blog post here. Peel the cukes a little bit (make them stripey) before you slice ‘em.

Right now, Mike Meyers is on Jon Stewart’s Daily Show. We’re not worthy!! We’re not worthy!!

it’s all i really care about June 13, 2008

Let’s be honest here…

http://my.barackobama.com/page/content/fightthesmearshome/

This is really funny, actually. My favorite is the one where the headline says “Barack Obama sworn into office on a Koran.” Then when you click the photo, it’s Barry, with his wifey & kids, and the President of the Senate, a man I think we all know, at his side…

Barack Obama = Nominee June 3, 2008

YEAAAAAH!

Tonight a soaking rain is falling on Baltimore. Oddly enough, we watched it come in from the West, on my best friend’s back porch. Literally watched dangling sheets of rain moving towards us, becoming steadily heavier, and now– as Barack tallies 2145 delegates and counting– the rain pours harder and harder. It’s a beautiful night, a beautiful outcome, and I’ll now be looking out for Barry to stick to his guns and name someone like Richardson, McCaskill, or Nunn as his VP.

Oh– and to the haters out there– yes we DID. And yes we can.

Joe Biden is my hero May 15, 2008

It’s about time someone said it…

http://politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com/2008/05/15/biden-calls-bush-comments-bulls-t/

Bullshit!!! You know how many times I’ve wanted to run screaming that into the White House? Bullshit bullshit bullshit!!!

Game over!! May 14, 2008

Edwards endorsement = Barack as the nominee

Edwards endorsement = hard campaigning and some good love from rural voters

Barack vs. McCain = Obama in Fall ‘08

Yes we can

Check out this lazy-eyed slag May 8, 2008

Hillary Clinton’s most unattractive supporter is playing dirty with Nancy Pelosi. In yet another desperate last-ditch attempt to garner the nomination for Clinton, one of her key supporters– and a major donor to the Democratic party– is threatening to stop contributing to the 2008 Congressional campaigns of Democrats unless he gets his way. He’s told Nancy Pelosi to finance revotes in Florida and Michigan.

I’d just like to point out what blatant arm-twisting this is. Last time I checked, a contributor threatening to withdraw their fundraising support unless they get their way was called SPECIAL INTERESTS. So, now the tables are turned– Hill’s got the special interests doing her bidding?

In other news, this guy is responsible for some amazing movies. It’s a shame that, despite his wealth and relative influence, he hasn’t been able to alter his underground-mole-with-a-goiter appearance. I guarantee you that, when Weinstein made that threat to Pelosi, she put his tiny balls in a jar like Lucy Liu when she decapitates that guy in Kill Bill. Nobody messes with Pelosi.

Is it our fault they’re famous? May 1, 2008

Could music junkies be to blame for the rapid proliferation of shamelessly awful, overproduced pop music soaking the airwaves? I was marinating on the sad state of pop music this afternoon, and developed a little theory. Ride along with me here. I’m doing more than just bitching.

I pretty much break down pop music into the following categories: First you have the Top 40-type music, which has somehow become diverse in genre classification while converging in originality. All the American Idol winners and their “genres” (pop country, pop pop, pop rock) alongside a cohort of singers who don’t happen to also be songwriters. Michelle Branch, that sort of thing. These entertainers appear squeaky-clean and aspire to heavy rotation on the office-safe mix stations. Their songs are mass-penned and have the lyrical and auditory subtlety of the Jell-O jingle.

Next is what I like to call post-alternative. While I dug alt-rock in the 90’s, it’s thoroughly dead, and it’s been replaced by groups like Linkin Park, Nickelback, and Puddle of Mudd (who are all extremely pissed off at their parents). Case in point: As a kid, I used to make mixtapes by recording anything from Beck to Nine Inch Nails off of a 98 Rock broadcast. Listen to those stations now, and each song sounds like the one before it. They’re mostly terrible songs. Sure, it’s the distorted guitar and screaming, but there’s once again a lack of nuance. All the angsty, misdirected rage of alterna-kids is neatly packaged here.

You’ve also got the “hardcore” R&B that rocks all the thugs in their Jettas. I’m talking about the Supermans and Hot in Herre’s of the world– tunes by guys like Ludacris and Chris Brown. You can throw dance jams by Rhianna and Fergie in that dance-rap pile. These beats are easy to groove to, trademark on lowbrow rhymes and puns, and usually remix an obscure hook from James Brown or Earth, Wind & Fire.

Now, what do these acts all have in common? Two things: First, very simple, overproduced, catchy songs. That’s because these ditties are either blatantly written for the performers or receive heavy input from marketing executives. Following that calculated catchiness is tie-in merchandising. By and large, adults don’t buy CDs anymore– but kids and adolescents do. And they also buy posters, books, magazines, DVDs, and outrageously priced concert tickets.

The record industry isn’t making money on album sales anymore. Through the 1990’s, the model was to book an act with the ability to sell albums. Labels would turn a huge profit on sales, while the artist chiefly made money by backing up their album with quality live performances. The various incarnations of downloading have fundamentally changed the model– illegal filesharing is still a popular method of music acquisition. Even those who buy their music legally are only bound to buy two or three tracks they like from iTunes, as opposed to $12.99 on a whole album.

So what’s a record company to do? They’ve recruited and managed talent, only to find that they’re not making money. They need acts who don’t just attract fans; they need rabid fanbases, eager to snap up dolls and cosmetics branded for their favorite stars. They need kids. Even if teenaged fanatics get their hands on a computer and download tracks, they’re still going to buy posters, clothes, and other high-profit tie-ins.

Hence: Wal-Mart is teaming up with Disney Consumer Products to build “Hannah Montana Shops” inside Wal-Mart locations across the nation. Hannah-branded sportswear, flip-flops, bath beads, and board games will be sold to millions of consumers for the birthdays, Christmases, and middle-school graduations of girls nationwide. And Wal-Mart/DCP are going to make boatloads of cash off of the squeaky-clean Miley Cyrus they’ve produced.

As she ages, struggles with her identity as a woman, and works to transition from kiddie icon to adult popstar (as Lindsey Lohan has failed to do, and as Justin Timberlake has quite successfully done), Disney will probably throw her under the bus in lieu of the next hot seller. Record companies have figured out that signing contracts with American Idol rejects sells tee-shirts and photoprinted folders. That’s why they don’t sign and promote exciting, original acts anymore. New acts can’t live the paradigm of “selling out” if they try– nobody’s buying.

Record companies also sell a lot of cellphone ringtones, and you can bet that the girl next to you blasting T.I. on her iPhone shelled out $2.99 for that clip. That’s pretty profitable, too. Those I-hate-my-parents rockers appeal to the “alternative” kids with disposable income–the ones too jaded for High School Musical will gladly snap up heavily promoted acts such as Anberlin and that annoying guy who sings “hey there Delilah.” Rhianna’s pretty and she sells lip gloss for CoverGirl. Gwen Stefani hawks schoolgirl vests. Talented? No. Profitable? Absolutely. Disposable? As soon as they stop bringing in the cash.

Beyond the cash cows, the majority of what’s listenable still carries a recognizable brand. That’s why the most inventive performers today include Justin Timberlake (had you told me ten years ago I’d be listening to a former boy-bander and calling his beats interesting, I’d have laughed in your face). The record industry’s message to musicians is clear: If you can’t bring in the cash, you’d better stick to distributing your tracks on MySpace.

Ergo: We, the music junkies who jumped at the chance to download fifty-seven obscure tracks by the Smashing Pumpkins back in 1998, or to get ahold of every Radiohead remix on every Japanese single released, for free– we are responsible for the new paradigm in performer promotion. If we had just shelled out the thirteen bucks at Best Buy, we might’ve at least kept these acts to the Britney Spears level for a few years; that level seemed incredible at the time, but Miley Cyrus is now wealthier than Brit-Brit will ever be. The record industry had to figure out a new way to make money, and this is what they’ve come up with.

When it comes to bitching about “music nowadays,” we may have no one to blame but ourselves. Oh well, at least we still have our iPods…